


Sensation

by JeweledAnima



Category: Dorian Gray - Fandom, The Picture of Dorian Gray, The Picture of Dorian Gray - Oscar Wilde
Genre: Anal Sex, Fingering, Hedonism, I hope Oscar Wilde approves, M/M, Manipulation, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Poor Basil
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-03
Updated: 2016-01-03
Packaged: 2018-05-11 12:04:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5625970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JeweledAnima/pseuds/JeweledAnima
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dorian Gray has become bored, and in search of new sensation realizes that his old friend Basil may help him in finding one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sensation

The smoke from his cigarette wafted through Dorian’s parlor as he lay draped across his sofa, long fingers running languidly through golden hair.  As was inevitable for the young hedonist, he had once more grown listless, aching for a new sensation in which he could immerse himself, a new pleasure that could expand his already mottled soul. As his senses were aroused, felt Dorian, so too did his soul morph and modify; yet it was the picture he kept locked away that showed the physicality of these modifications, leaving Dorian the exquisite feelings that came from sensation and sin without fearing the consequences that would have befallen his visage.  

Yes, the time had come for something new, and Dorian felt mildly frustrated that it was not immediately making itself present to him.  He possessed money, music, and tapestries; art, jewels, and books; yet, at that moment, all of it seemed hardly to scratch the itch of Dorian's desires of pleasure.  For the moment, even women, whom he could enjoy whenever he wished, seemed plain and drab, where usually they could satisfy most of his carnal urges.  He craved something new.

Standing and discarding the butt of his cigarette on the ashtray, he wandered into the garden, white hands trailing across the spring blossoms.  He sighed, coming to a halt in front of the lilacs he was so fond of.  Plucking a spray, he brushed it against his boyish cheek, taking in its sweet scent.  He was reminded of the fateful day his prayer had been spoken, the day the portrait had taken the personification of his soul upon itself, both a curse and a blessing; also the day he had first been enamoured by the charming Lord Henry, despite poor Basil’s warnings.  Dorian paused, lips parting slightly as the lilac stalled near his ear.  Basil, the marvelously drab artist whose work had changed Dorian's life so dramatically.  Hallward would almost certainly be willing to help fill one of the holes that was present in Dorian’s endless journey of sensation.  Had he not recently confessed his idolatry, his abject adoration of his beautiful muse?  Dorian smiled to himself, cherub-like in the perfect beauty of his crimson lips, as he called for his servant.  

“I shall be heading to Basil’s shortly,” he said, donning a charming black jacket that he had recently procured.  “Will you please have my things prepared for me to go to the club with Harry by eight o’clock?”

“Yes, sir,” was the response as Dorian ducked out of the door, hailing a cab that would take him to Basil’s.  Upon his arrival, he knocked at the door, making certain that he looked his sharpest.  It was unnecessary, of course, but Dorian felt it only to be prudent.  It took a few minutes before Basil came to the door, looking slightly alarmed and as if he had dressed himself in a hurry.  At the sight of Dorian, his eyes widened, and he threw open the door, smiling meekly.

“Dorian!” He cried.  “I’m sorry, I wasn't expecting you.  Do come in.”  He stepped aside to allow Dorian entrance, and the young man took care to brush the painter as he passed by.

“I do hope I haven't inconvenienced you, my dear Basil,” Dorian said, removing his hat and coat and hanging them on the stand by the door.

“Your presence is never an inconvenience, Dorian,” Basil said, closing the door.  “Quite the opposite.  You're always a pleasure.”

“You flatter me,” Dorian droned.  “You weren't expecting any other company today, were you, my friend?”

“No, not at all,” Basil assured him.  “What is it that you've come by for, if you don't mind my asking?”

“Do I need a reason to visit an old friend?” Dorian beamed, placing a hand on Basil’s shoulder.  He saw the way Basil reacted to his touch, and smiled inwardly.  It looked as though he had been correct.  “But,” he continued, dropping his voice slightly, “I truly was wondering if you could help me with something.”

“Anything for you, dear boy,” Basil said, leading them into his sitting room and taking a seat on the divan.  “What can I help you with?”

Dorian remained standing, trailing his lips with a graceful finger.  “I’m bored, Basil,” he pouted, lips exquisitely parted.  “And I simply desire your company.”

Basil’s eyebrows raised upward.  “You have it.”

Dorian settled next to him on the divan, adjusting Basil’s ill-formed collar.  “I also wanted to thank you for it.  Few of my friends have remained as steadfast as you.”

Basil appeared distracted by the fingers that gently grasped his lapel, by the arm that now draped easily across his shoulder.  “Well,” he gulped, “I… I suppose I—”  

Dorian didn't wait for Basil to finish before leaning close, placing a kiss on Basil’s lips.  The artist froze, cheeks flushed a dark red.  Dorian smiled, his angelic face tinged pink with victory.  He gave Basil another quick peck before the painter’s restraint gave way, returning Dorian’s first kiss with twice as much passion.  Dorian slowly leaned Basil back on the divan, unbuttoning the artist’s white shirt, trailing his soft lips along Basil’s collarbone.  Hallward’s eyes were shining feverishly, looking both confused and pleasantly shocked, as Dorian began to undo the buttons of the artist’s trousers, sliding as many garments away from their bodies as was possible. Basil was exposed, and sweat trickled down his brow as Dorian’s lips trailed down his chest.  The young man looked up at the artist through thick lashes, lust evident in the blue eyes that Basil had spent so many hours trying to perfect in his works.

“May I express my gratitude?” Dorian murmured, voice husky.  He didn't wait for an answer before teasing Basil’s tip with his tongue, and the artist’s hips jerked forward instinctively.  A laugh emitted from Dorian’s lips, and if Basil had not been so preoccupied, he might have thought it cruel.  However, as it were, Dorian continued to flick and tease, playing both with his tongue and fingers, periodically taking the artist into his mouth until Basil was on the precipice of release.  Just before the artist could climax, however, Dorian pulled away, eliciting a sad whimper from Basil.  

“Hush,” Dorian murmured, discarding his own trousers, revealing the exquisite curvature of his body.  “Now it’s your turn.”  Balancing himself above Basil on the arm of the divan, he let himself be guided into Basil’s mouth, gasping brokenly in pleasure as the unpracticed tongue slid up and down his length.  A man was certainly different from a woman, he realized, arching his back and thrusting his hips.  With Basil, it was rougher somehow, more crude, and feeling the artist’s whiskers on his thighs elicited a whole new sensation.  Aching for more, he withdrew from Basil’s mouth with a whine, taking from the pocket of his discarded coat a vial of oil he had procured from an odd Frenchman in the club one day.  At the time, it had appeared that he would have no use for it, but Dorian was glad he had kept it.  Slathering it on his entrance, he leaned back, letting Basil watch in a dreamlike trance as he inserted a finger into himself, then a second, then a third.  Thrusting lewdly into himself as he knelt above Basil, Dorian felt the artist’s eyes greedily taking in everything they saw, the spit that had dribbled down Basil’s chin forgotten.  

Settling himself more comfortably, Dorian leaned closer, whispering, “You're awfully quiet, Basil.  Is something wrong?”  Basil shook his head, eyes wide.  Dorian smirked, then positioned his entrance above Basil’s length, letting just the tip slide in before he let it fall.  

Basil whimpered, “Dorian, for the love of God!”

Laughing breathlessly as he realigned himself, Dorian said, “God has no say in this.”  He let Basil ease himself inside, crying out in pleasure as the artist hit the sweet spot inside him.  He thrust his hips back, then forward, rocking to Basil’s slow rhythm.  “Hurry up,” he growled through gritted teeth, one hand supporting himself on the arm of the divan, the other clenched in his friend's sweat-soaked hair.  Basil’s gyration quickened, and his breathing became rapid and uneven.  Dorian pushed the pace, crying out each time Basil hit his sweet spot.  The artist was gripping Dorian’s shoulders for dear life until, at last, Dorian’s name escaped his lips in a magnificent sob.  Dorian felt himself be filled with something hot and sticky, crying out for himself.  He felt that he was about to burst, and was frustrated with Basil for coming first.  With a sound of indignance, he thrust himself once more into Basil’s mouth, ignoring the come that dripped from him, and Basil sucked until Dorian released, moaning loudly in pleasure.  The artist choked, sputtering the white stickiness that Dorian also trailed down his abdomen.

Spent, Dorian kissed the artist, biting Basil’s lip for good measure before he stood, covered in their mess.  “You won't mind if I use your bathroom?” Dorian mumbled.  As the dumbstruck Basil shook his head, Dorian went to clean himself off, reveling in his victory.  When he returned, smelling of Basil's cinnamon soap, he found Basil almost exactly where he had been left, legs splayed awkwardly on the divan.  Dorian smirked to himself, his craving, for the moment, sated.  He hoped that Basil would understand how inconsequential the whole affair was meant to be.

Blinking slowly at Basil through his long lashes, he said, “Now, I really must be going.  I told Harry I would meet him at the club at eight-thirty.  Thank you, Basil, for such a lovely evening.”  He took Basil’s chin in his delicate fingers, keeping the artist from saying anything more by giving him one last pressing kiss.  Pulling on his black coat, despite how rumpled it was, he bade his friend goodbye, heading back into the darkening streets.  

The world of sensation was Dorian’s only world, though it often opened others to him.  Basil's memory sent a  pleasant shiver down his spine as he hailed a new cab.  Seated with his chin laid gently upon his hand, gazing out the window, Dorian felt content for the moment.  He had acquired what he had set out to find: new sensation, new pleasure. _Poor Basil,_ thought he, thinking of the way the artist had looked at him. _I hope he hasn't set his heart upon me too firmly.  He must understand that nothing more can possibly happen._

Though Dorian wasn't there to see it, the painting had modified itself once more.  The eyes were rather more glazed and cruel, and the fingers were curled in such a manner that a virgin would have blushed to see them.  And yet the beautiful Dorian who spoke and breathed looked no different for his endeavor, his golden curls framing his white face in emulation of the cherubim, pure and unaffected by the malady of his soul.  

And so, thought Dorian, it would always be.

    


End file.
